


Please Leave Your Message

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Drinking, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Photos, Secret Relationship, Sex Work, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24977185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley gets his work phone and his personal phone mixed up.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 179
Kudos: 696





	Please Leave Your Message

Work has always been a bit of a crapshoot, if Crowley's being honest. Especially when he's given a specific task, rather than being allowed to do his own thing. Some of the orders are harmless enough that he does them without complaint, some are simply distasteful, so he does them grudgingly and hates himself a little bit more. While others are stuffed with so much genuine malice that he has to bend over backwards to get them inventively thwarted. Or purposefully cock them up, without it looking obvious enough that he gets dragged back to Hell for a reprimand, and/or fizzy flavoured torture. 

Which is the fucking worst.

But with the invention of the smartphone Crowley rarely has to leave the bed to accomplish basic temptations. In fact he can do most of them while sprawled out in the sheets, leaving others to twist in the winds of sexual desperation and guilt, while he watches nature documentaries, flips through plant catalogues, and occasionally naps. Sometimes he even goes to the kitchen and gets himself another glass of wine.

He's currently working on convincing a politician that it would be a really good idea to leave his long-suffering wife and miserable children. Mostly through a variety of explicit pictures and some obscenely descriptive texts. He's not putting too much effort in though, because if Hell expects it to take months to snag one soul then Crowley is absolutely going to waste that time. It's not his fault they have no idea how anything works up here. 

The man, Chambers, has been texting him through the morning, swinging wildly between describing the boring events of his day, and bemoaning his inability to currently have his dick anywhere in or around Crowley. Adding to the two weeks worth of badly spelled texts and blurry, unflattering dick shots on his phone. The man desperately wants to believe that Crowley is the one who won't stop contacting him, and can't stop thinking about him. 

Crowley's next step is usually to ask them to meet him somewhere they might 'accidentally' be spotted, get up close and personal, then slip into the man's head just long enough to convince him that they're definitely and absolutely going to have sex, in flexible and inventive ways. When Crowley's actually planning to sit in an uncomfortable armchair, reading old copies of Gardener's Weekly for an hour, while the pillock has a lovely daydream.

He just doesn't have the energy for it today. He's learning about the tapir's natural habitat, and he can't be bothered to get dressed and pretend to enthusiastically seduce another hypocritical arsehole. But keeping him warm, keeping him desperate for it, that he can do, so he's left the phone on the bed beside him, shooting off replies to Chambers pleas for attention whenever they come in. 

Speaking of which - the phone lights up, and Crowley reluctantly pulls his gaze from two flirting tapirs to look at the small screen. The text blinking up at him is asking him what he's doing. He knows exactly what the greedy bastard wants, knows what he's expecting through that harmless, polite request. They can't ever say what they mean, they have to make you say it first, and then inevitably take the blame. Well, Crowley's a fucking master at playing that game. He shoves the sheets down, works himself for bit so he looks interested, then pulls his knee up, opening himself to frame his dick just right, leaving more than a hint of 'you can spread my thighs later if you play your cards right.' He takes a picture, checks it, and then hits send.

The screen goes dark, and he moves to set it down -

\- realises that it's not his work phone.

It's not his work phone. It's his _personal_ phone. There's only one number in his personal phone. There's only one number in his personal phone, and only one place for _anything_ he sends to actually go to.

"Fuck," he chokes out, trying to pick up both phones at once, nearly flinging both of them, and himself, off the bed.

Sure enough the 'what are you doing?' is not a request for pictures that gradually increase in levels of obscenity, but a genuine question as to his plans for the evening. He just sent Aziraphale a picture of his dick. A nicely framed picture of his dick, with great lighting, but a picture of his dick nonetheless.

Can you destroy an entire mobile network before a text arrives at its intended recipient? Asking for a friend.

"Fuck. No. FUCK."

Why did he buy the angel a smartphone? Why did Aziraphale choose this one piece of modern technology to learn how to use properly, just for Crowley? This is a disaster of his own making. He only has himself to blame. 

He struggles to send another message, forced to make words under the incriminating picture he'd flung out in absolutely the wrong direction, the keyboard a meaningless splodge for a long, panicked moment. He has to remember what fingers are, and how the alphabet works, as he stabs at the letters in a desperate bid to fix this situation. 

**'Shit. Sorry. That was meant for the work phone. That was for work. Temptation. Didn't mean to send that. Please pretend that never happened. Dinner my treat for the next year. Sorry.'**

Crowley checks that over, it sounds good, apologetic, no harm done. None at all. Playing it down. Ignore the picture of my dick. I did not intentionally move us into dick pic sending friends territory, it was a harmless mistake. I'm an idiot, obviously. Look how much of an idiot I am. We'll all laugh about it later, it's fine. It's all fine. It's all _fucking fine_. 

He sends the message before the time between dick and apology reaches some sort of critical mass of awkward and suspicious. Then stares at it for what feels like an eternity but is exactly nine minutes and eighteen seconds. Does it take nine minutes to look at an unexpected picture of your best friend's dick, and then read an apology and react appropriately to said apology? Does it? Does it really take that long?

Crowley hates that he could have made this mistake with literally anyone else in the world, or the rest of Heaven and Hell, and he would not have given a single flying fuck. At worst he would have spent an uncomfortable century dodging return images from some of Hell's more unpleasant inhabitants.

But it had to be Aziraphale. Of course it had to be Aziraphale.

Why is it taking so long?

It's probably nothing. Aziraphale probably went to go make a cup of tea after he'd texted him, no big deal. He'll probably get the picture of Crowley's dick and the apology at the same time. It'll come as a two for one deal. Barely any chance to be shocked before Crowley's already apologised. They're both intelligent, mature beings who understand that sometimes human inventions can have unforeseen tragic or humiliating consequences. They've been through this dance before. Also, Crowley has existed for almost six thousand years, and if he could be acting less like a human teenager right now that would be great. Aziraphale has seen his dick before, they both lived through the Roman empire for Hell's sake.

Granted, never semi-hard and framed in nice lighting, but a dick is a dick, right?

He's just about convinced himself that everything is probably going to be fine, and not in any way explode or catch fire. Or worse, lead to Aziraphale being awkward around him for the next decade, when a text opens beneath his own apology. 

**Of course. I completely understand. Mistakes happen to us all. Don't think any more about it. Shall we meet for dinner later?**

That's -

That's actually far, far better than Crowley had hoped for. It's almost anticlimactic, no shocked offence, no mockery, no stuttering awkwardness that's going to leave the next half a dozen meetings painfully uncomfortable, until they both just power through it by ignoring it. As they've both proven themselves more than willing to do. 

No, Aziraphale's taking the whole thing in stride, accidental dick pics are nothing between friends. Completely understandable. Like he thinks maybe Crowley is just sending pictures of himself around to all and sundry. It's not even worth getting worked up about, it was bound to happen sooner or later after all, wasn't it? What with all the pictures of dicks that exist, in the grand scheme of things. Crowley's dick is barely worth a comment, not even worth getting scandalised over. Which is absolutely not something he should be feeling so annoyed about. Crowley should be happy, crisis averted, everything is absolutely fine. His artfully framed and particularly attractive nude is apparently so utterly unappealing as to be instantly forgettable.

Fuck.

There really is something _wrong_ with him, isn't there?

~

Crowley's worried that dinner will be unbearable. That it will be something he has to grind his way through rather than enjoy. Though he will, if that's what it takes to drag them back to something like normalcy. He knows how it goes by now, he knows what he's willing to do to keep this.

But Aziraphale slips into the car with a smile and a greeting, so obviously pleased to see him, and he doesn't so much as hint about his earlier indiscretion. In fact he's already started his enthusiastic gush over what he's going to choose from the menu. It throws Crowley a bit, of all the things he'd been prepared for, it had never occurred to him to prepare for nothing.

He's still half waiting for the other shoe to drop twenty minutes later, while Aziraphale has opinions about soup. Crowley honestly can't decide if Aziraphale is pretending everything is fine or if everything actually is fine. Normally he can tell, but he's feeling a little out of sorts. Maybe Aziraphale had just gotten better at powering through awkward moments. It's not like he hasn't had plenty of practice by now. 

Dinner is fine, conversation flows the same way it always does. Aziraphale smiles, and eats, and reaches across the table to make a point twice, fingers coming so close to Crowley's lazily stretched out hand that it feels like a tease. Crowley very slowly starts to unclench, to relax, to make himself exhale. His curling lounge gets a bit more genuine, his smile a fraction easier.

It's fine. It's all fine. Nothing is actually on fire.

By the time they get back to the bookshop he's almost managed to convince himself of that. He follows Aziraphale at a lazy pace, and folds himself into the sofa while Aziraphale exchanges coat for cardigan, and moves a stack of boots to make space for two glasses and a corkscrew. There are quiet, considering noises, as the angel looks between two bottles of wine, and they're so charming Crowley can't bear to interrupt. 

Though maybe Aziraphale was just waiting for somewhere more private, because when Crowley raises a glass to be filled the angel clears his throat, in a way that seems to be preparing itself to ask awkward questions. It sounds a lot like a trap about to snap shut on him. Crowley can feel himself twisting up with tension again, but he does his best to affect an air of nonchalance, curious eyebrow raised over his glasses, patient set to his mouth, Nothing to see here people.

Aziraphale sets the bottle down, makes himself comfortable in his own chair, and it takes him a few seconds to look up again.

"Did your - your work thing go alright then. No problems there?" It could be a general question, the sort Aziraphale has carefully asked him a hundred times before, completely unrelated to any dick-based mistakes on his part. 

It could be, but it isn't.

Crowley nods casually. "Yep, all sorted, just a temptation I was working on. Nothing big, nothing important, all absolutely fine, went off great."

He takes a large mouthful of wine, mostly to stop himself talking, manages through some impossible force of will not to choke on it. He suspects Aziraphale will let this go, if he says nothing else. Because he seems more concerned about Crowley's discomfort than his own. But as soon as he swallows the wine he knows his mouth is going to try and make more words, is going to try and fix this by prodding at it some more. Because he's an idiot.

"The mix-up was my fault entirely." He hurries the words out on a breath, before he can convince himself not to. "I had both my phones together and I mistook your message for - I realise it was inappropriate."

"And an accident," Aziraphale insists, more graciously than Crowley probably deserves. "Besides, it's not the first time I've been...ah, let's say 'gifted an artistic nude.'"

Crowley manages not to throw his wine, if only by a fine margin. There are books around here after all, and Aziraphale would not be happy to have them splashed, or soaked. But - did Aziraphale just suggest that other people have been sending him pictures of their dick? Not by accident but on _purpose_. People have been sending the angel dick pics on purpose?

"You what?" Crowley demands, perhaps a touch loudly, but in his defence this is brand new information. "Who? Who sent you nudes?" 

"Oh, they were sketches mostly," Aziraphale corrects, as if that's better. "And a few miniatures, they were really quite lovely. I even allowed a few pieces to be done of me, shocking, I know."

Which doesn't answer Crowley's question. All it does is bring up a lot more questions, queue them in his throat with an urgency he tries desperately to smother, because asking them would expose more than he'd like right now. Which means Crowley will need to subtly discover who'd sketched the angel in the nude, if any of these pieces survived, and where someone could go about acquiring all of them.

"But then I've never found the naked human body to be in any way vulgar or offensive," Aziraphale continues cheerfully, as if they're having two entirely different conversations.

Crowley makes a dubious noise in his throat.

"Yeah, but mine's not technically a human body though, is it?" he reminds him. "Not exactly standard issue." He's aware Aziraphale was specifically talking about humans, but something in him feels compelled to point that out.

"Oh, but I've always found it quite lovely," Aziraphale admits.

Crowley doesn't really blink, as a rule, so he settles for staring. Then for setting his mostly empty glass back on the table with a thud. Because he doesn't think he could - he doesn't think he could hold anything right now. Aziraphale has clearly already realised what he'd said, or perhaps how honestly he'd said it. Because he immediately looks flustered, then seems to decide he'll power through it by aggressively pouring them more wine.

"Ngk, thanks," Crowley manages, and he doesn't just mean for the wine.

They drink in silence for a while, and Crowley for the life of him can't decide if it's awkward or not. The room feels oddly warm, pieces of conversation hanging in the air, ready to be put to use if either of them were brave enough.

"I would imagine of all the things that our respective offices might be observing or recording, mobile communications are unlikely to be one of them," Aziraphale says eventually, each word seemingly measured out carefully. 

It's a harmless enough statement. But it's said so slowly and so pointedly, in a way that's more than familiar to Crowley. Aziraphale has been talking between words for years, trusting that Crowley will hear what he really means. All the things he can't say, shouldn't say, is too afraid to say for fear that one or both of them will be punished. But no matter which way Crowley turns that, it sounds like Aziraphale wants him to - that he's asking him to - and he's not sure he can afford to get this one wrong. 

Nine minutes and eighteen seconds, he remembers, far too long to stare at a photo of your best friend's dick without comment or reaction. Though Crowley's brain refuses to go further than that, refuses to picture anything for fear it would consume him. He very carefully refills his glass again, lifts it to his face. 

"Artistic nudes," Crowley says, as if he's contemplating the words and not asking a question.

Aziraphale looks at him briefly before taking a long swallow of his wine, as if to fortify himself.

"Not always entirely artistic," he says carefully. "I remember one charcoal sketch that was...very explicit."

Crowley squeezes his fingers together so tightly the wine glass very nearly snaps at the stem.

Right then. Challenge fucking accepted.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Appetiser](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25165033) by [chamyl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl)
  * [[Podfic] Please leave your message](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282473) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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